


Lonely (But Not Alone)

by dougstamper



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Hypochondria, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Misunderstandings, Open Relationships, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Self-Harm, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8898913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dougstamper/pseuds/dougstamper
Summary: A bloodied Grantaire stumbles into a group of student revolutionaries, and he begins a journey down a new path in life. Joly teaches Grantaire he is worthy of Enjolras' love, Grantaire teaches Joly he is worthy of Bossuet.





	1. Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> SOOO i've been yelling about joly/taire on twitter when i realized they make simultaneously the worst and best pair on earth. they settle for each other, because they are not loved by the ones they want most. and disclaimer, joly is equally as in love with bossuet as grantaire is with enjolras--he is genuinely okay with their relationship being...open. 
> 
> i'm sorry for making montparnasse like that, this fic is essentially for me to vent and project my own personal situations upon the characters. i really love montparnasse in reality!! i just couldn't think of anyone else to play his role. 
> 
> warnings for past abuse, homophobia, and references to self harm!

It was in the _obnoxiously_ hot summer that Grantaire, hopping from bar to bar, happened upon the Musain. He’d gotten into quite the argument at his previous destination--argument wasn’t exactly the proper word, it was truly a fist-fight. He nodded to himself as he realized, hazily, the reason he was at the doorstep of a new establishment. He went to loosen his necktie before stepping inside, choosing to ignore the dull pain radiating from his scraped up knuckles. Not once did he consider the consequences of walking into a room full of people, black eyed and drunken. Probably worse, he hadn’t seen a mirror in some time.

 No, the injuries didn’t concern him. What little courage he had he mustered up for a different reason; his own self. His outfit was old and worn, his hair _felt_ like a tangled mess. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, so that wasn’t exactly a compliment on the personality he already despised. No one would like him, but that was the usual. He would not spend his time moaning and groaning on how lonely a soul like his was, because there was no hope to change such a fate. He learned to live with it, and he was almost proud to say that he had long ago accepted it.

In summary, his objective was not to make friends--so when a young boy with light brown hair and hazel eyes grabbed him by the collar, he froze. It was defensively at first, he glared at the other and held his fists at his side, automatically expecting another dispute. He couldn’t guess _why_ someone would have a problem with him, as he had stepped in the bar just a moment ago. Grantaire’s fight-or-flight nature began to subside as the brown haired boy’s expression softened. He was not angry, he seemed to be concerned.

 

“Bahorel,” The boy called across the room. Grantaire did not attempt to maneuver his way out of his grip. “Have you seen this. . .poor young man before?”  
  


Oh, a face he recognized. The tall individual whom was asked the question walked over, and Grantaire’s memory began to rush back to him. He had definitely seen him before--no, they had conversed. It was back in the winter, when the night sky had a different face and the streets as cold as the beer they shared.  
  


“Unfortunately,” Bahorel replied. Now, Grantaire moved ever so slightly back with worry, though this boy would not release him from his grasp.  
  


“I am--ah, terribly sorry, to trouble the both of you.” Grantaire tripped over his words. “It seems I am not welcome here, I shall be on my way-”  
  


“You _must_ stay,” The shorter one spoke. He let go of the lapels on Grantaire’s waistcoat, then proceeded to look him up and down. His expression of concern grew to something of fright. “You require medical assistance, it seems.”  
  


“I insist, I am perfectly fine--” He was cut off by his own hiss in pain as his bruises brushed up against the table behind him. “And. . .why need I stay here, if you believe I require assistance?”  
  


“Joly here,” Grantaire did not recognize the name, but found himself oddly content to know it now. “wishes to be a doctor. I am sure he could help you. . .”  
  


“‘Taire--Grantaire, that is my name.” He shifted awkwardly, then winced again. “Please, do not feel the need to tend to me in any way, for we’ve only just met--”  
  


“Nonsense!” Joly exclaimed, then gently ( _Grantaire was not used to people being gentle with him)_ grabbed his arm, leading him over to a seat in the back of the room. He noted the amount of physical contact that had been made within this short span of time, yet none of it harmful. It was new. “Take a seat, I have a kit with me somewhere here. . .”  
  


Bahorel snickered, and Grantaire grew further perplexed. “You simply carry aid around with you at all times?”  
  


“He is. . .a hypochondriac, of sorts.” Bahorel confirms. Grantaire tilts his head in confusion. “It simply means he is constantly worrying over matters of one’s health.”  
  


“That would make sense.” Grantaire did not resist as Joly put a hand to the injured one’s chin, lifting his head up slightly. Joly frowned.  
  


“You will have to deal with the marks on your face for a week or so,” He explained sympathetically. “The split lip will heal in time, and though you most likely took a hefty blow to the face--”  
  


“Very.”  
  


“Your nose does not need setting, it is not broken. Just bloody. . .”  
  


Joly cringed just slightly as he stared at the blood. _Typical of a hypochondriac,_ Grantaire noted.  
  


“Just allow me to--”  
  


Grantaire’s instincts were almost instant, he shoved Joly’s hand off his sleeve the second the boy went to roll it up. He moved so swiftly, it did not cross his mind to be gentle--he recoiled almost the instant Joly’s palm hit the wooden surface of the table. He felt anxiety creep up in him, desperately trying to search for an apology before questions were raised.  
  


“There’s nothing wrong there,” Grantaire forced out. “I am right-handed, so surely if there was any injury it would not be to the left.”  
  


Joly did not look for a moment as if he believed him, but nodded regardless. “And your ribs?”  
  


“Sore, but do not worry--you seem to worry very much.”  
  


Joly sat across from Grantaire, “I could say the same to you, my new friend.”  
  


“I don't understand. . .”  
  


“We all worry over the secrets that we keep.” He elaborated. “You are a mysterious individual.”

 

. . .

 

That evening, a new young man, blonde in a deep red vest entered the Musain, Grantaire would not have noticed if it wasn’t for the attention suddenly redirected.  
  


“If it isn’t the pride of dear homeland!” One yelled. The blonde did not seem amused.  
  


Grantaire took a swig from his bottle, then leaned over towards Joly. “Who is he?”  
  


“Ah. . .” Joly smiled fondly. “I have a better idea than storytelling.”  
  


Joly arose from his seat, tugging Grantaire with him. Grantaire’s mind was too far off, too awestruck to realize what was taking place. His feet moved for him, his eyes locked on the boy in red. He nearly tripped as Joly rushed past the crowd, and it suddenly occurred to Grantaire that he was about to meet somebody embodying the essence a Greek statue.  
  


“Enjolras!” Joly addressed him, letting go of Grantaire. “Finally, our leader arrives. We have a new recruit.”

   
“I--” Grantaire was not allowed to speak.

   
“A new revolutionary at such a spontaneous time?” Enjolras smiled, and Grantaire felt his head spin. He didn’t question it. “I welcome you.”

   
“Thank--Thank you, monsieur-” He did not think twice about the comment of joining the revolution, though he had never believed in it.

   
“Please, no titles exist within our group.” Enjolras was quick to reassure. “And what may I call you?”

   
He seemed to forget his own name momentarily, his mouth opened without forming words.

   
“He’s called Grantaire,” Joly added.

   
“Y-Yes, what he said.”

   
Enjolras nodded. “And may I ask what exactly happened to your face?”

 

. . .

 

The heat of the summer began to die down, and Grantaire no longer had to worry about being the only one in the room with his shirt sleeves down. He had become _inseparable_ from this mix-matched group of young men. Their personalities each seemed to compliment one another, their laughter eased Grantaire’s mind for a short time every night. It was all he could ask for.

   
A few dozen speeches, two riots, and one argument later, Grantaire concluded that this strange feeling of warmth within his chest was that of adoration--love, he hardly dared to think of such a word. Though it seemed to constantly pester him, pop into his mind each evening when the main act entered the room. The atmosphere changed, there was hope and change and _reason_ to live in the air. However, the kind of hope and change that resided within Grantaire was vastly different from his fellow students.

   
He had never loved one before. Yes, there were adolescent crushes--everyone had those, but nothing akin to what he felt for Enjolras. When he was young, Grantaire was told he was not like other boys his age, his father would constantly criticize. _It is not normal,_ he would say, _man cannot love man._ At first, Grantaire did not listen. The first time he was caught holding hands with a boy out in the garden ( _bright blonde hair, just like Enjolras_ ), his teachers were quick to give word to his father. The old man got worse. He would throw, scream, shove.

   
 _“You are a lost cause, Grantaire!”_

   
The words caused his heart to speed up. He tried not to think of them often, but this new feeling dug up memories he’d much rather ignore.  
 

Later in his life, perhaps a year before he’d stumbled into the Musain, there was a boy of the streets--Montparnasse. Grantaire was drawn to his similar nature at first, two cynics must make a perfect pair. Montparnasse charmed him, dazzled him, showered him in words that made him feel like he was wanted. And just as swiftly, he crushed Grantaire’s very soul by taking back those words and replacing them with kicks, metaphorical and not. He had been swept up into a lie, happy to live without judgement, but it came at a price too high to pay.

   
“ _Your father was right about you, you lazy drunken bastard._ ”

   
Grantaire did not like thinking of him either.

   
He grew used to the cold, to the forcefulness of those around him, never able to call one a friend. He became used to a world in which love did not exist, and his kind was the highest sin of all. In the facilities he came across, Grantaire was able to hide his true self behind fake laughter and crude jokes. It was only until the Musain that he felt. . .at peace.

   
Still, he would never believe in the revolution.

He had no belief that it would ever be a success, no motivation to further it’s slow progression. He watched as Enjolras defied his wildest dreams, soaring with the ideals of freedom in his heart. The two were as different as night and day, Grantaire did not consider himself worthy to be around such an ethereal being. But he stayed, he clung onto a _sliver_ of an idea that maybe one day--they, who were comparable to cats and dogs--would find a way together.

   
Grantaire needed Enjolras. Enjolras needed the revolution.

   
And lone Joly was the only one who could see it.

 

. . .

 

“You should not stay so late, ‘Taire,” Joly sighed, grabbing Grantaire’s bottle from him and ignoring the frown that immediately followed. “The night air can make you sick, you do not even bring a coat with you.”

   
“Perhaps, you may be right.” Grantaire stood. “Perhaps, I do not care.”

   
He did not say his farewells to the Amis, for his conscience was too heavy and his head to full to the brim with thoughts of things that could not be. He distantly felt regret for dismissing Joly so quickly, but just as the thought came to him, the younger one trailed behind him. Joly had a tendency to do this lately, an expression of worry always upon his face. Grantaire could not fathom why.

   
They reached the streets of the city, desolate and quiet at this hour. It was as if Joly’s footsteps became louder as they walked. Grantaire could only ignore the situation at hand for so long, and slowly he came to a stop. He did not turn to face Joly.

  
“Why does it matter to you?” Grantaire asked.

   
“Why does what matter?” Joly countered. “You make no sense, R.”

   
“Neither do you,” Grantaire spun on his heel to face him. “Caring for someone like I, it’s silly. You waste your time.”

   
Joly seemed saddened, yet what Grantaire said clicked into place, no matter how vague. It wasn’t hard to see through the cynic’s facade. “You are mistaken, my friend.”

   
“Joly,” Grantaire paused, inhaling in a labored manner. “I am no good to anyone. I am asleep for half our meetings, I do nothing in return for your generosity. I am useful for nothing, _I_ am n-”

   
“Do not say such things.” Joly had never spoken words so sternly in front of Grantaire before.

   
“But it is the truth.”

   
Joly crossed his arms. He seemed to stare right through Grantaire, and suddenly the older boy regretted getting into this conversation. On one hand, he wished to simply run back to his apartment alone--on the other, curiosity of what Joly saw in him kept him standing in his place like stone.

   
Joly took a step forward, he was close enough now that Grantaire could feel his warm breath fill the chilled air around them. He did not waver, he did not step back. The part of his mind which did not care about consequences screamed at him to get _closer._

   
Joly spoke quietly, “You are afraid to trust.”

   
Grantaire blinked, surprise added to his whirlwind of emotions. “You know this _how?_ ”

   
“I understand, and I relate.”

   
He was not alone. They were not alone, and the more Grantaire thought about it, the two were very similar in many ways. They were prone to assume the worst. Neither had come to this conclusion before, and it struck a chord in Grantaire’s heart despite his efforts to prevent it.

   
Hesitantly, he questioned. “Do you. . .trust me?”  
 

“Yes,” Joly breathed. “And you?”

   
“I do--”

   
Grantaire’s sentence was not finished before soft lips collided with his rough, chapped ones. Joly’s body was pressed up against Grantaire’s now, and the younger boy’s hands found their way to his waist. The kiss was not one of love, it was not one of dedication--but rather of _relief._ They had found one another, and this was the solution to the equation in which they embodied. Grantaire heard a noise escape from the back of his own throat, muffled. He did not want to break apart.

   
It was unavoidable, and a heavy silence fell upon the pair.

   
Laughter broke through it. Grantaire’s laughter, nearly manic. Joly did not understand, and such was clear by the way he stared at the other. He looked almost _hurt,_ until Grantaire elaborated.

   
“We were not born to meet, Joly,” _As I was to meet Enjolras,_ he thought. “Yet we fit together like two sides of the same coin.”

   
“Do not lie to me, I beg of you.” Joly said, cautiously. “I know whom your admiration is for.”

   
"And I know the certain _Eagle_ that has yet to notice you." Grantaire replied. “We both know our feelings are not returned.”

   
“Will this do?” Joly’s chest filled with hope.

   
“It will have to.”

 

. . .

 

It was two months later, Grantaire was at the foot end of Joly’s bed. Tears silently fell from his eyes, he did not attempt to hide them. The two had grown acquainted enough at this point that his shame did not hold him back, although he wish it did. Joly sat behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing himself up against Grantaire’s back.

   
“Hush,” Joly soothed. “It is late, ‘Taire. You trouble yourself too much.”

   
“He will never love me,” Grantaire did not need to say a name. “For his lover is our nation, his affections are with the revolution.”

   
“Do not forget that _I_ hold affections for you,” Joly paused. “I know it is not what you ultimately desire, though.”

   
Grantaire felt a pang of guilt in his chest. He did not sleep around as if it were a game, he did not kiss and hug and sleep next to those he did not harbor feelings for. But not even words could express how quickly, and how hard he had fallen for their Apollo.

   
“No, no. . .it is much worse, Joly.”

   
“Grantaire, he will come around--”

   
“He _hates_ me.” Grantaire chokes out a sob, and Joly holds on tighter. He presses a kiss to the back of Grantaire’s neck. “He thinks I am nothing but a drunk, I am simply in his way.”

   
“I will be by your side until he realizes the mistake he is making. It is his loss, after all.”

   
Grantaire sniffled, huffed out a few more cries before he forced himself to quiet down. He already was enough of a coward, he didn’t want Joly to see him at his weakest for long. They sat in silence, until Grantaire turned and lifted a hand up to run through Joly’s hair. Joly didn’t question it, but didn’t see the reason behind it--Grantaire was just the one who cried his eyes out, not him.

   
“I am sorry,” Grantaire said, voice wavering. “To put you through this. It is not normal.”

   
Joly shook his head rapidly, lacing his fingers between those of Grantaire’s free hand. “ _We_ are far from normal, so to hell with what that word means. This is perfectly fine by me.”

   
“It does not bother you, that I love another?”

   
“It does not,” Joly said in the gentlest tone he could manage. “I want you to be happy, above all, R. You can love whomever you’d like, and I will be here for you until the day you do not need my company any longer.”

   
“Joly, I do not wish to _use_ you!” Grantaire’s self hatred grew. “You deserve so much more, deserving of someone who is dedicated to you and only you.”

   
“You are not using me, in fact, I’m more comfortable with our. . .” He thought on the word. “Relationship, being open.”

   
“Is. . .that so?”

   
“For you it is Enjolras, for me it is Bossuet.” Joly admitted at last.

   
It made sense, so much sense. They turned to each other when they could not have what they truly desired. They connected purely through one another’s pain.

   
Grantaire’s head and heart still hurt.

  
  
  



	2. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A misunderstanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for much more descriptive self harm also everything is just one big misunderstanding

Hypochondria turned out to be something far more serious than Grantaire ever assumed it to be. Joly wasn’t just exceedingly worried by nature, there were existential things that added to this--he thought up things no one except himself could see, felt phantom pains that were turned into incurable illnesses in his head. He _feared_ , and the longer Grantaire knew him the more he witnessed this boy work himself into more frenzies.

It was the early morning, mist hanging in the air. Grantaire had spent another night at Joly’s apartment, distantly worrying if there happened to be a pesky landlord that would insist on hearing the reason the two left at the same time often. He pushed the thought further away, and practically dragged his feet until he came to the tallest window in the apartment. Looking up, the sky was a gorgeous pink, radiating warmth. Perhaps it would be just enough to break through his artist’s block, but that wasn’t important. Joly wasn’t beside him.

  
Or in bed.

  
It wasn’t reason to fret, was it? They weren’t truly a _couple,_ just in an unnameable place on a spectrum of closeness. It really should have been nothing, for all Grantaire knew Joly could have just went out early to grab them breakfast. That would be pleasant, he’d done that once or twice before and each time he worked a rare smile out of Grantaire.

  
Though the conclusion was not pleasant, not in the slightest.

  
As Grantaire walked down the hall, towards the front door to see if his friend’s coat was missing--he heard a familiar sound off to his left. Heavy, troubled breathing. The bathroom door was already halfway open, and Grantaire swiftly pushed it open the rest of the way. Before he could even look up, all sorts of bottles and medicines came falling from the shelf Joly rummaged through, and into the sink.  
  
  
In between the desperate search, a look of despair came upon his face as Joly stared back at himself in the mirror. There were hot tears slipping down his face, his hands shook as he gripped at the edge of the surface in front of him. No--his whole _body_ shook with a fear that Grantaire could almost feel within himself.

  
“Joly,” Grantaire realized he’d yet to announce himself, and prayed he didn’t further startle the poor hypochondriac. “Joly, it’s alright--”

  
“No, no, _no!_ ” Joly cried. “There has to be something, it was just here--it was-”

  
Grantaire stepped forward, reaching around Joly from behind. He gently held the other’s hands in place, surely he’d scrape up his fingers if he dug into the cabinet where razors lay. ( _Grantaire himself was not free of fault there_ ).

  
“What is it?” Grantaire said as gently as he could. “I can help you--”

  
“Then _please,_ ” The anguish in Joly’s voice made Grantaire wince. “I do not wish to die, not now, not yet.”

  
“You will live, my dear, you will be just fine--”

  
“My head feels as if it’s on fire, surely there is irreversible damage inside.”

  
Ah. It made sense now. Grantaire turned Joly to face him, and cradled his weary head upon his chest. He gently ran his fingers through Joly’s hair, trying to soothe his pain. He placed a gentle kiss against his brown locks, before their eyes met.

  
“It’s simply a headache, it is only temporary.” Grantaire reassured him. “There is no _damage_ that you speak of, and I will go to the store and find what you are missing to ease it.”

  
“N-No. . .don’t leave,” Joly tugged at the fabric of Grantaire’s shirt. “If you are right, and it subsides, do not waste a single sou on me.”

  
After some amount of back and forth, Joly found himself in the arms of the older one as they laid in bed, covers a mess of silk. Every once in awhile, Joly’s breath still hitched with a silent cry. It was then that Grantaire held him closer, whispered what he could to try and bring him to peace.

  
Ultimately that morning, Joly still left the building with a frown upon his face. He entered the Musain quietly, and he sat on the opposite side of the room from Grantaire. He was undeniably melancholy throughout the day, and Grantaire could only think, glancing to Bossuet-- _It is not I who eases your pain._

 

. . .

 

Bossuet sat across from Joly at a creaking wooden table ( _Never next to him, no_ ). The drinks were on the house that night, and Bossuet hoped desperately that it would wipe the frown from Joly’s face. It did not suit him, he thought. He should be smiling, laughing like his usual self. What had changed him? For his fears seemed to be getting better, he hadn’t had an attack in front of Bossuet in weeks. Perhaps it was the looming day of the revolution, closing in upon them. It was never a nice thought to know your death was secured--Enjolras insisted they would prevail, but Bossuet could not fathom the image of Joly surviving a gunfight, and if it weren’t for Bossuet’s luck to doom him, he would not wish to live in a world without his companion.

  
Had he ever expressed his admiration properly? Most likely not. Surely, it was unavoidable that Bossuet was more than bad with words.  
  
“Tell me, my friend,” Bossuet began. “What has you so down tonight?”  
  
Joly looked up suddenly, he had been idly doing something-- _anything_ to distract himself, counting the number of creases and wrinkles in his coat sleeve. “What makes you think I am _down_?”  
  
“Ha!” Bossuet patted Joly on the shoulder roughly, and attempted to ignore the way it made him flinch. “Have you seen, or heard yourself tonight? Everyone is full of laughter, but you--”

Bossuet looked around the room. Enjolras and Combeferre seemed to be in deep discussion, that was a given. Every other soul in the Musain was truly perked up. . .then there was Grantaire.  

  
A sudden click sounded in his mind. Anger rose in Bossuet’s chest.

  
“How dare he. . .” Bossuet glared across the room at a drunken Grantaire. “How could he make you this way!”  
  
  
“What--?” Joly felt panic arising again. “I’m just lost in thought, Bossuet. I do this frequently--”

  
“It’s R, surely he must have gotten into something with you.” Joly could not figure out what Bossuet meant by ‘ _something’_. “You two have not looked happy in ages. And you would never start. . .”  
  
“Bossuet, you are imagining things.”

  
“Me, the imaginaire?” Bossuet bordered on amused and defensive. “Tell me what is wrong.”

  
What people did not know was what Joly feared most of all. Similar to Grantaire in his upbringing, the one thing he never wished to attract to himself was judgement. Joly always tried as hard as possible to fit in, act like the others. It was better to be a sheep in a herd than the lone wolf, for you live a more prosperous life. Becoming a cast-out would simply be reliving his childhood.

No, he would not tell Bossuet anything too revealing. It meant putting a knife near Grantaire’s throat, a misconception in Bossuet’s mind left undenied. He did not want to think if it was worth the consequences.

  
“Maybe another day,” Joly settled. “It will make sense to you in time.”

 

. . .

 

Another night, another tangled mess of legs locked together and whispers for only one another to hear. They were coping, despite it being in their own unique way. Grantaire’s breath was always of whiskey or wine, stubble lightly scraping against Joly’s jaw as kisses were placed up and down his neck. The light of the candle near their bedside illuminated Joly’s face in a delicate, beautiful way. For when Joly’s arms were wrapped around Grantaire’s back, pulling him closer, Grantaire could make himself believe that there was a singular person who needed him--even if only in that moment.

“I _need_ \--” Joly whined, and Grantaire could only muster up a slight grin. “‘Taire,”

  
The literal need of which was obvious, but Grantaire pressed his lips to Joly’s to prevent himself from finishing his sentence, ‘ _someone else_.’

  
Grantaire could _feel_ a moan rise up from the back of Joly’s throat, it came out as a song-like pitch that he would never tire of. He was always the first to come undone, the first to fall into pieces of a puzzle that Grantaire had learned to skillfully place back together. He did not know if it was because Grantaire’s mind always roamed, or that Joly happened to have a capacity for more love and a larger gap in his heart to be filled. Most likely an equal balance of both, as Grantaire soon fell victim to the perpetual cries and harsh tugging at his black, curly hair.

  
Where Grantaire was and _wanted_ harsh, Joly provided. It was his night.

  
A few long exhales and huffs of breath later, Joly curled up at the older one’s side. He clung, made Grantaire feel simultaneously guilt-ridden yet appreciated. Grantaire could swear it was so silent, you could hear his thoughts if Joly were to try hard enough. That would be bad enough, but the following words struck fear in him;

“I understand why you buy so many razors, yet do not shave now.”

  
Joly’s hand trailed lazily up and down Grantaire’s arm, “What have you done to yourself, R?”

  
“It is unimportant, it does not do me harm.” He lied, turning his face away from Joly. Joly heard his heartbeat speed up as his head rested on Grantaire’s chest.

  
“It is quite _literally_ harming yourself,” Joly corrected. “You can’t continue to do this--”

  
“It helps me.”

Joly sat up. He forced Grantaire up with him, and gently turned his face back in his direction. To Grantaire’s surprise, Joly wrapped his arms around him. He held on.

  
“I swear, if Enjolras knew what he was doing to you--”

  
“Do not speak his name,” Grantaire buried his face in Joly’s shoulder. “Please. It's not his fault, either. You cannot say that.”

  
“He will know eventually.”

 

 _He,_ meant both the Angel and the Eagle--respectively.

  
. . .

 

There was one soul who knew of what happened between Joly and Grantaire. A ginger-haired and freckle-faced one, Jehan. He was so soft spoken, so kind. Grantaire could never imagine him retelling something that should be kept secret, and so he had always placed an additional amount of trust in Jehan. Jehan was always there to pick him up when he fell, take him home, wrap him in blankets he knit himself and give him a steaming mug of tea. Sometimes metaphorically, most times not.  
  
It was one of those nights. Grantaire hardly ever asked anyone over to his place, too ashamed of it’s appearance, or simply electing to spend his time in solitude. Though on this night, he’d grabbed Jehan and pulled him from Courfeyrac’s side. Somewhat timidly, he asked if he’d be willing to pose for a new painting. Eagerly, Jehan nodded, and ruffled Courfeyrac’s hair before taking off.

  
It was only around half-an-hour into the painting, including set up, in which Jehan gave Grantaire a worrisome look.

  
“Smile, friend,” Grantaire spoke nervously. “You don’t wish this to be a sad piece, do you?”

  
“There is something troubling you, ‘Taire.” Jehan stood, and Grantaire huffed out a sigh of frustration. He placed a hand upon Grantaire’s shoulder, and seemed to stare into his soul with the kindest eyes in all of France. Grantaire could not hide things from the one whom he called his best friend.

  
“Is it Enjolras, still?” Jehan inquired.

  
“I suppose, but not entirely.” Grantaire dragged a hand down his face. “Please, sit. This is a complex subject.”

  
It took half the amount of time that Jehan realized something was wrong, for him to also realize what Grantaire was speaking of. He smiled once again, and grabbed Grantaire’s hands.

  
“You are not doing anything wrong, I promise you.” He said. “As long as Joly is alright with this as well, you are perfectly sound in your ventures.”

  
“Thank you, Jehan.”

 

. . .

 

It was deep into winter now, and Grantaire had not seen much of Joly privately since autumn. He noticed the way he always sat beside Bossuet, how they laughed together, _were_ together. It made him wonder, did Joly no longer require him? Perhaps he’d finally found the peace he needed, the love from the one he wanted. Grantaire was used to being tossed aside, but he did not expect how much it would hurt when he caught a side-glance of Joly unmistakably kissing Bossuet, their hands together.

  
One free bird, and the other left behind to his own devices.

  
Oh, how it hurt. He felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes, Grantaire leaned further against Enjolras. He mustered up all the courage he could not to break right in front of his leader, the feeling of being so _close_ to something he could never have pained Grantaire to his core.

  
He did not even remember how they ended up in this situation, outside the back of the Musain. Grantaire did not bother to listen to the world around him, Enjolras could be shouting words of hatred at him for all he cared or knew. So long as he could continue to be warmed from this contact in the cold.

  
“Grantaire, you must go home.” Enjolras’ words finally made it through to Grantaire’s mind.

  
“ _You_ must stay.” Grantaire pleaded, but for exactly what _,_ Enjolras was clueless.

  
“Stay where?”

  
“With me, please.”

  
Enjolras sighed. He pushed Grantaire back, off him, and again came the feeling of his soul being chipped away bit by bit. “You know, Bossuet has told me some curious things about you and a certain doctor in training.”

  
Grantaire could not breathe. “Oh.”

  
“That is all you have to say?”

  
“I. . .” He tried to breathe. “What--has he told you?”

  
“You’d like to know your own gossip?” Enjolras’ laugh of pity was like a million daggers. “You held him from Bossuet. You kept him.”

  
“No--”

  
“That’s not all,” Enjolras stepped forward. “You _guilted_ him into giving his affections. He said-”

  
“Please--”

  
“He never loved you.”

  
“E-Enjolras, you misunderstand!” Grantaire was the one to back away now. “Bossuet lies! Those are _lies!”_

  
“You think I’d trust you over him?” Enjolras spat back.

  
“I would never do such a thing, never--” Oh, Gods. He was crying. “Please listen to me.”

  
“You do not deserve that after what you’ve done.”

  
Enjolras turned on his heel, and Grantaire’s feet moved for him, rushing back into the Musain. He would have simply taken the backway to his apartment, but he passed Joly--he could not even look him in the eye. “How could you?”

  
Joly did not understand.

  
Enjolras did not understand.

  
Bossuet, above all, did not understand.

  
He ignored how Joly tugged at his coat, and stormed out. His breathing was still labored, he could no longer hold down sobs. The winter night was cold, so cold, crying hurt. _Everything_ hurt. This was not supposed to be how it worked out, this was not right. He was the villain now.

  
Grantaire stopped in a small alleyway near his home. He could not walk any further. Slowly, his back slid down the frigid stone. He sat on the ground, shivered, and shook with choked out sobs. He pulled his knees up to his chest, and hugged them close. If _Enjolras_ knew--knew this lie, this misconception, then surely every one of his other friends did as well. They all believed in it, of course.

  
  
_R, you fool._ He thought. _For thinking you were allowed happiness._

 


	3. Oblivion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conclusion.

Grantaire did not show his face for two weeks.    
  


No one had the courage to check on him, or the will. All the Amis knew was that he and Enjolras had had another fight, a bad one, and Grantaire had not returned. Jehan was a nervous wreck, Joly was equally as unsettled but just like the others--did not understand what had taken place. Joly thought it could have been his own sudden disappearance, maybe he underestimated how much Grantaire relied on him. Jehan did not stop giving Bossuet and Joly death glares for those entire two weeks.    
  


One evening, Jehan finally stood. “Listen!”

  
The room fell silence. “You are a bunch of uncaring  _ cowards!  _ How could no one bother to check on Grantaire?”

  
“Easily,” Enjolras replied. It was only after Jehan gave him the look of  _ one more wrong word and I will annihilate you  _ did he correct his tone. “That is, after what he did.”

  
“And what is that?”

  
“It is not a matter of public interest.” Enjolras crossed his arms.

  
“You are  _ heartless,  _ Enjolras.” Jehan hissed. He grabbed his coat and headed towards the door. “I will find out what you did to him this time.”

 

. . .

 

“‘Taire!” Jehan banged on his door, it was old enough that he felt it could break under the pressure--though it would not. “Please, Grantaire, talk to me.”

  
He didn’t waste very much time knocking. He looked around, under a flower pot, the doormat, and a crooked brick in the wall--eventually, Jehan located the spare key. Without hesitation, he shoved the key in the lock and swiftly walked into the barren apartment.

  
Bottles, more than usual, scattered the floor. Jehan already was cringing before even finding his friend down the halls. His paintings--his paintings that he had poured his heart and soul into, pieces of their paper littered the floor near his easel. Brushes looked like they had been untouched for a long, long time.

  
“Grantaire, this isn’t funny,” Jehan called towards the bedroom. “We are seriously worried about you.”

  
“ _ You  _ and who else?” Came a ragged, drunken voice from beyond the door. There was laughter that followed, laughter at only himself. “Of course, Jehan. You were the only one to notice me gone.”

  
Jehan turned the doorknob and was not surprised when he was greeted with the most disheveled Grantaire he had seen to that day. It was all predictable, but--

  
His arms. Grantaire had not bothered to roll the sleeves of his shirt down, and there were bloody bandages messily wrapped around surely numerous fresh cuts, Jehan could only whisper, “ _ No-- _ ”

  
“I really wish you could have just waited a few more days, Jehan,” Grantaire did not look at him. “I wish you would have let me die here.”

  
“Never--”

  
“But the others would have.”

  
Jehan sat at the edge of his bed. He resisted Grantaire’s shove, and pulled him into his arms. “I will need to get Joly, he needs to change these bandages--”

  
“Don’t you  _ dare! _ ” Grantaire’s voice broke. “It’s his partner’s fault this has happened.”

  
“What do you mean, ‘Taire? I don’t know what has upset you so much.” Jehan pet Grantaire’s hair gently, rubbed circles in his back.

  
“Y-You dont know? Do the others?”

  
“We are all clueless.” At least there was that.

  
“Enjolras, he claimed that I forced Joly to cheat.” Grantaire began. “That Bossuet told him  _ all  _ of our relations, but they do not understand. He thinks  _ I  _ am the liar.”

  
“Grantaire. . .” Jehan breathed out, his tone filled with disbelief. “I will straighten this out immediately. I promise--”

  
“He will not believe you.” Grantaire sounded eerily nonchalant. “For anything that originates from me is  _ sin,  _ for my word is no good.”

  
“Then Joly will explain, surely he did not intend this to happen.”

 

. . .

 

Joly was there within the hour, and carrying the same first aid kit he had when the two had met. It seemed to carry more items this time, he obviously was expecting the worst. Jehan let him in, told him to excuse the ‘mess’, and Joly’s heart sunk with each step he took. He could only gasp when he saw Grantaire.

  
“R, you. . .”

  
“Drunkard, bastard, waste of space, choose your pick.” Grantaire smiled at him, his voice was bordering manic now.

  
“I’m so sorry,” Joly rushed to his side, and grabbed antiseptic along with fresh bandages from the small box. “This will hurt just a bit--”

  
“Oh, do not worry! I’m very much used to it.” He didn’t even flinch as the removal of the old patch-work reopened his cuts.

  
“Grantaire,” Jehan warned. This was to resolve the situation, after all. He knew Grantaire was hurting, though would not tolerate misdirected anger.

  
“Jehan explained it all to me, ‘Taire.” Joly spoke as he worked, keeping his head down and occasionally whispering apologies. “It’s my fault, I never--never corrected Bossuet.”

  
“I figured.”

  
“I will, though! I will, and Enjolras will understand. No one will hate you--”

  
“He already does, is that not clear?” Grantaire tried his hardest to contain his anger, for it was only born out of sadness.

  
“I told you he would come around, and he  _ will.  _ Mark my words.”

  
“They have been  _ so  _ reliable--” Grantaire stopped himself. “I-I am sorry, I shouldn’t be so rude.”

  
“No, no. You have full right, I have done you wrong.” Joly sounded unbearably guilt-ridden.

  
“No one has done anything wrong,” Jehan finally stepped in. “It is just one. . .misunderstanding, on a large scale.”

  
Joly finished up his work, and stood. He wouldn’t outstay his welcome, but did grab Grantaire’s hand for a small moment. “Listen, Jehan and I will have this resolved. You are welcome to come back, we’d very much like you around again.”

  
“I will see.” Grantaire lied, he knew he’d be back--liquor from the stores cost too much.

  
“Please do,” Jehan added. “And be well, Grantaire.”

 

. . .

 

He was back the next Monday, or Wednesday--Grantaire couldn’t keep count. Barely anyone noticed him walk in, save for the one that mattered the most. Enjolras’ eyes were on him immediately, and Grantaire regretted walking in the door. He had a solution, an easy one.

  
He drank, and drank, until he couldn’t quite see straight. There were no apologies from Enjolras, no attempt at redemption. There was no other reason for him to be there, so Grantaire figured he best not waste his time. His skin felt like it was crawling under his sleeve, but he dared not to allow anyone that sight. He was disgusting enough already--though there was always room to make Enjolras hate him further, right?

  
Jehan walked over to him at one point, and welcomed him back before noticing quite how inebriated he was. Grantaire only heard a sigh of frustration, before the ginger boy left to find Enjolras. Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to think of what they were possibly discussing, though it sounded. . .downcast. They were not fighting, they were coming to an agreement.

 

Some time later, a voice of an angel broke through his intoxicated mind. “Grantaire?”

  
“Apollo,” Grantaire did not look up at him. He felt shame rise in him. “It’s been some time.”

  
“Would you. . .please follow me upstairs? If you’re--”

  
“Capable? Probably not.” Grantaire chuckled to himself.

  
“I will help you,” Enjolras placed a hand on his back to help him up, and Grantaire’s heart skipped a beat. He missed this. “Slowly, now.”

  
An arm around his shoulder was all Grantaire felt, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling at the contact. He probably looked ridiculous--it was as if he was happy to walk the plank, surely Enjolras was leading him upstairs so that he could lecture and judge him without witnesses. Grantaire would rather have that than nothing, and the fact he was actually  _ assisting  _ the drunken man made him more lightheaded than the wine.

  
Slowly, they made it up the stairs. It was the last step when Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s arm, and the older one let out a short cry. Enjolras recoiled as if he’d been burned, searching desperately for what was wrong. “G-Grantaire?”

  
“It’s. . .” He sighed. “Hurt my arm.”

  
“Here, let me see--”

  
“Please,” His smile had faded, he looked away. Not for a moment did he prevent Enjolras from rolling up the fabric of his sleeve, however. Perhaps he wanted him to feel the same pain Grantaire worked through every day.

  
There was a soft intake of air, and a whisper of a word Grantaire couldn’t make sense of. “I’m so sorry, I do not expect your forgiveness.”

  
“I do not blame you for anything,” Grantaire swiftly rolled his sleeve back down again. He missed Enjolras’ hand on his back.

  
"I. . .hurt you, I treated you like you were something to be thrown away--”

  
“Am I not?” Grantaire slurred. “In your shadow, I am nothing.”

  
“You. . .mean so much, ‘Taire.” The words shocked both of them equally. Enjolras had never been so gentle before. “I didn’t come after you when you left because I knew how upset with me you’d be. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

  
“You are a sight for sore eyes, so that is impossible.” It began to hurt less.

  
“Can I ask you something?”

  
“I’m in no position to refuse.”

  
“Why did you do it?” Enjolras asked, hesitantly. “. . .Stayed with Joly, though you knew he loved another?”

  
“For the same reason he stayed with me.” Grantaire could hardly say the word ‘stayed’. “We were simply substitutes for whom we really needed.”

  
“And who was it that you--” Enjolras stopped.

  
“It’s alright, Enjolras.” Grantaire filled the silence. “I know you would never reciprocate my feelings. Joly just got lucky, ‘has what I don’t.”

  
“No, Grantaire--you’ve got it wrong.”

  
Grantaire did a double-take. He held his head up to finally look Enjolras in the eye, curiosity bordering on fear. “What do you mean?”

  
“I was so angry because--because I thought someone else had stolen your heart away,” Enjolras admitted. “I thought I’d lost my chance with you, waited too long.”

  
“You. . .are kidding.” Grantaire said gravely. “Please, I don’t have the will for this--”

  
“I will prove it to you, if you will let me.” Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand, pressed it to his own chest.

  
“Do your worst.” Grantaire could barely finish his sentence before there were soft, warm lips on his own. It pulled a sound out of him he didn’t know he was capable of producing, he felt like the air had been taken out of him but in the most pleasant way possible. He could  _ cry,  _ he thought, as  Enjolras leaned in further. No, no, he did cry. Tears as warm as Enjolras’ lips fell down his cheeks, and he couldn’t tell if they were from the deepest sadness he had pent up, or the sweetest relief. Enjolras did not pull back, he lifted his hand up to wipe the tears away. His touch was the softest thing Grantaire had ever felt, he was finally,  _truly_ needed.

  
Humming contently, he finally put distance between the two again. Grantaire sighed at the loss, though felt he was out of breath. “Enjolras.”

  
“I love you, and I cannot stand to see you suffer--especially because of me.” Enjolras sounded as if he was confessing, then suddenly pulled Grantaire into a tight embrace. “I love you.”

  
“Love does not summarize how I feel for you,” Grantaire choked out. “I thought you were like a God, unreachable, I was--am not worthy--”

  
“I am just like you, even if you cannot see it.” Enjolras does not let go. “I am a mortal, and if anyone,  _ I  _ am unworthy of your love and praise.”

  
Grantaire did not speak. He savored the feeling, until Enjolras brought up the inevitable. “I am only sorry that I did not act sooner, for we will not have. . .much time, not on this earth.”

  
“The day of the revolution is closing in.” Grantaire said, and the moment turned bittersweet.

  
“It is not fair,” Enjolras pulled back to look Grantaire in the eye. “The only explanation is that we will surely meet again, a life awaits us after death. The gift of our efforts.”

  
“ _ Your  _ efforts.” Grantaire corrected.

  
“Your strength.” Enjolras smiled at him.

 

. . .

 

Grantaire awoke to gunfire, shouting, crying. It clicked with him immediately what was happening, and he stumbled to his feet as swiftly as possible. He tried to not let his knees go out from under him as he heard his friends pleas from outside. He followed up the same stairs Enjolras had led him just a week or so ago.

 

He locked eyes with Joly and Jehan. They knew, and only a split second later they were gone.    
  


At the end of the hall, awaited his angel in red. Damn the officers, the murderers who stood in his way. He shoved past them, his path seemingly set in stone. He would not live in a world without Enjolras, and thankfully, he did not have to.

  
“Will you permit it?” Grantaire’s words carried two years worth of emotions. He held his hand out, ignored how the soldier in the distance laughed and said  _ ‘Two in one shot _ .’

  
Enjolras did not need words, for he took Grantaire’s hand and smiled a smile that radiated light enough to illuminate the darkness that Grantaire had endured his whole life. It was the only thing someone could wish for to be their last sight, as the pair were consigned to oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE LONGEST FIC IVE WRITTEN YET and its all fucking angst how surprising...anyways i hope you enjoyed, i know it's not my best but i just had to get this out of my system!! nice (horrible) hamilton reference


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